


Please Come Home for Christmas

by 14hpgirl19



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Established Relationship, Homecoming, Light Angst, M/M, No Mary, Parentlock, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 04:53:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9056170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/14hpgirl19/pseuds/14hpgirl19
Summary: Christmas is a time for friends, love, and family. 
It's just too bad their family is missing a member.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A little Christmas fic that is a bit late since Christmas is just about over. This was inspired by just about every song that has someone missing their loved one on Christmas. 
> 
> This is un-betaed and un-Britpicked, so I apologize for any mistakes.

6:53… 6:54…

Sherlock watched as the clock on his bedside table slowly ticked its way closer to seven o’clock. It was incredibly mind-numbing and dull, and he would’ve hated doing it if it didn’t help distract him from what was to come in approximately five minutes.

He was dreading it. This day should be happy and filled with nothing but good tidings. Instead, it would be filled with disappointment and broken hearts.

Without looking away from the clock, he felt his hand drift out to his left, towards the cold, empty opposite side of the bed. His fingers glided over the soft sheets and hit the pillow that had long since stopped retaining its usual scent. It wasn’t like that side of the bed was going to magically become occupied just because he wasn’t looking at it, but checking anyway was habit by now.

6:56. Getting closer. Sherlock took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He had faced murderers, faked his own death, killed people, and endured the worst kind of tortures a man could inflict. And yet, he still needed to prepare himself for this moment.

It was easier when he claimed to not have a heart. It was easier not getting attached. He could go on with his life and not be bothered by sentiment. That’s what he would be like now if a sandy-haired, blue-eyed army doctor hadn’t walked into life and ruined everything.

_You know you wouldn’t change a thing,_ he thought.

He really hated himself sometimes.

Upstairs, there was a sudden pounding of feet. Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at the clock once more. 7:00. It was time.

He listened as the feet stormed down the stairs, skipping the last few steps and landing with a louder thud. A moment later, there was a high-pitched gasp from the sitting room, and he allowed himself a small smile. Then the footsteps started coming closer, zooming down the hall. He closed his eyes only to open them a second later when the bedroom door flew open.

“Papa! Papa, wake up! It’s Christmas!”

He grunted when the body of his six-year-old daughter jumped on top of him. She pulled herself up on all fours and hovered above him, her mouth stretched into a toothy grin.

“Good morning, Rosie.”

“Morning, Papa! Merry Christmas!”

He smiled and tapped her nose. “Merry Christmas, love.”

Rosie turned towards the other side of the bed, and Sherlock’s heart sank.

“Daddy didn’t come home?”

He brushed a stray blonde curl back behind her ear. “I’m afraid not. At least, not last night.”

Rosie brightened a little. “So he might come home later today?”

He hesitated. He was always afraid to answer these sort of questions. Their frequency had only increased the closer they got to Christmas, though they had still been a common occurrence before the holiday season arrived.

“I don’t know,” he responded truthfully. “We’ll just have to see.”

She looked back towards the empty spot and touched the pillow. Her eyes were sad, but thankfully not filled with tears. Sherlock tapped her nose again.

“Did Father Christmas visit you last night?”

Rosie nodded eagerly. “Come see!” She leapt off him and grabbed his hand. He dutifully stood up and followed her out to the sitting room, where there were piles of presents beneath the Christmas tree in the corner. She held her hands out in a “ta da” gesture, and he acted appropriately surprised, as though he hadn’t set them all out the night before.

“Give me a moment to get settled,” he said, shuffling into the kitchen. He could hear Rosie fluttering around the gifts, trying to decide which one to open first. Her quiet mutterings to herself drew a little smile from him, though his heart was still heavy. It got heavier when he opened the cabinet to see the army mug sitting next to his usual one. He reached past it and pulled out Rosie’s Elsa mug along with his own and set about making hot cocoa and coffee.

It was all wrong. There should be a second person in the kitchen with him, bumping into him and pinching his arse playfully. There should be someone who would wrap his arms around him and nuzzle his ear. Someone who would playfully chastise Rosie for shaking her presents before watching her open each one with serious interest.

Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head. Rosie was his priority right now, and she deserved a good Christmas. It was hard enough for her being without one father. She didn’t need to be down another.

“Papa!” the girl in question called. “You’re taking too long!”

“I could take longer if you wanted me to.” While the coffee finished brewing, he went back to his bedroom to retrieve his dressing gown. The empty bed just made him frown again.

“Please don’t!” Rosie chirped, still managing to be polite despite her clear desire not to be. She was raised well, though that wasn’t a lesson Sherlock had taught her.

“Okay, okay,” he said, reentering the sitting room with two steaming mugs in his hands. He set Rosie’s on the coffee table beside her before settling onto the couch. “Go on then.”

Within minutes, the sitting room was covered in wrapping paper. Sherlock realized far too late that he should have gotten a trash bag out beforehand. That was something John would have remembered if he had been there.

Buying all the presents had been harder than Sherlock thought it would be. John managed to send him an extensive list of things to get for their daughter, and Sherlock did his very best to get everything. In the end, he only deduced seven people to tears in order to get what he wanted, and he managed to do it all with a week to spare. If his little girl couldn’t get the number one thing on her Christmas list, she was damn well going to get everything else.

She let out a shriek as she opened her kid’s chemistry set and looked up at him with wide eyes. With John’s eyes. Sherlock still got breathless at the sight.

“I can do ‘periments with you!” she crowed. Sherlock smiled. The chemistry set had been his idea, and clearly it was a good one.

“Yes, you can. Father Christmas is a clever man.”

Rosie beamed and continued through the last of her presents. There were a few children’s books, a new doll, a stuffed dog, and one of those machines that could project constellations on the ceiling. She reacted to each one with great enthusiasm, her smile brighter than any of the lights on the tree.

When she reached the end, she settled on the floor amongst the torn wrapping paper and gifts and stared at the door. Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows and looked to the door as well.

“Expecting something?”

Her tone was so matter-of-fact that Sherlock’s heart shattered. “Daddy.”

He should have seen this coming. When he’d asked Rosie what she wanted for Christmas, the first thing out of her mouth was her father. He’d been gone on assignment for three months now, and she was eagerly anticipating his return, despite not really knowing when that would be.

“I got everything else I wanted,” she continued, never looking away from the doorway. “So he’s going to be here soon.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together and set his mug down. He slid off the couch and waded through the wrapping paper graveyard to get to his daughter. Scooping her up in his arms, he settled her on his lap and cradled her to his chest.

“I know you want him home,” he murmured. “I do too. More than anything. But I don’t think he’s coming today.”

Rosie looked up at him, and now John’s eyes were shining with tears. Sherlock’s throat got tight.

“But I asked Father Christmas to bring him home,” she said insistently. “And Father Christmas brought me all this.” She gestured to the presents all around them. “So he’s going to bring Daddy too. He _has_ to.”

Sherlock sighed and adjusted his hold on her. “Bringing Daddy home is different than getting presents.”

"Why?” John always said Rosie got her inquisitive nature from Sherlock. It used to make Sherlock warm inside, the belief that there was a part of him in her. In this instance, however, it was regrettable.

“Presents are easier to gather,” he said. “They’re objects. They don’t have responsibilities. Daddy is a person who is doing important work. Father Christmas can’t take him away from that work.”

“But… But Father Christmas can do anything.”

Sherlock swallowed. “Not this, love.”

Rosie looked back at the door, and Sherlock felt rather than saw her body deflate.

“He’s not coming home today?” she asked softly. Sherlock shook his head.

“I’m afraid not.”

Rosie picked herself up from Sherlock’s lap and grabbed her new stuffed dog. She clutched him to her chest and walked to the door.

“Where are you going?”

“Upstairs,” she answered. “I wanna be alone.”

She disappeared up the stairs, and Sherlock was left sitting on the floor. He looked from the door to the chair that had been unoccupied for months.

“You’ve made her upset,” he said. “I hope you’re happy.”

He regretted it a moment later. After cleaning up all the wrapping paper, he curled up in John’s chair, wishing his scent wasn’t so faint.

<><><> 

The rest of the day passed as planned. Rosie came downstairs looking a bit better, if not as happy as before. The two of them got dressed and welcomed Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Greg, and Sherlock’s parents over for Christmas dinner. Mycroft joined as well, and it was a testament of how depressed Sherlock was that he didn’t argue with his brother once. Everyone tried their best to cheer Sherlock and Rosie up, but as the night went on their attempts petered out. They left around eight, each person squeezing Sherlock’s arm and kissing Rosie’s head. Mycroft was the last to go, giving Sherlock a solemn once-over before descending the stairs and taking his leave.

Sherlock finished cleaning up dinner and walked into the sitting room to find Rosie cross-legged in John’s chair. She had something in her hands, and when he perched on the armrest, he saw it was the photo album John had started putting together once Rosie had been born. Most of the pictures in it were of the little girl, but over the years John added several of him and Sherlock. Some of them were just of Sherlock, which both pleased and annoyed him.

Rosie currently had the album open to a picture of the three of them on her first day of school. Mrs. Hudson had taken it, beaming as the two men knelt down on either side of a bright-eyed, grinning girl. Sherlock remembered tangling his fingers with John’s where they met behind Rosie’s back.

“I miss him,” she whispered, her tiny finger tracing John’s face. “He promised me he wouldn’t be away for a long time.”

“I know, love,” he said, grazing his lips over her hair. “I can assure you that he feels the same way. And if he could be here right now, he would be.”

Rosie sniffled, and Sherlock knew what was coming next. “He missed Christmas.”

He moved around the chair and knelt before her. His thumb caught the first tear to slip out, and Rosie’s chin wobbled as she tried to hold the rest in. He deftly took the photo album from her and set it aside.

“He missed one, yes, but he will be here for all the Christmases to come. I’ve known your father for a long time, and I know for a fact that he will do everything in his power to make sure he is with you for every single Christmas after this one. He loves you _so much,_ Rosie. You’re his greatest achievement. He told me so. He’ll be back with you as soon as he can.”

He barely had time to prepare himself for the tiny body launching itself out of the chair, but he managed to catch her before she fell to the ground. She cried against his shoulder, and he rubbed her back as he shushed her.

During his little speech, he’d heard footsteps coming up the stairs. At first he had ignored them in favor of paying attention to his daughter, but now it occurred to him that they were heavier than Mrs. Hudson’s. Still calming Rosie down, he looked up and into John’s eyes. Not on Rosie’s face, but on John’s.

Because John was standing in the doorway, still dressed in his army fatigues.

Sherlock felt his own eyes fill with tears. John was _home._ He wanted to fling himself into John’s arms and never let go, to press his face to his neck and breathe him in, to kiss him senseless. Instead, he tapped Rosie’s shoulder. She lifted her head and looked at him. He wiped away a few stray tears.

“Now tell me, Ms. Rosie,” he said, fighting to keep a straight face. “Is it still Christmas?”

Rosie frowned, confused. “Maybe? But there aren’t any more presents to open.”

“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong.” He nodded toward the doorway. Rosie turned and screamed so loud she could have woken all of London.

“ _Daddy_!”

Sherlock stood up and watched as Rosie flew across the room and latched herself to John’s legs. John set aside his bag and scooped her up in his arms, his own face just as wet as hers. His hand splayed across her back as he kissed her head and pressed his face to her hair.

“Merry Christmas, Rosie my love,” John said, his voice thick. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here earlier.”

“You’re here now.” She snuggled close, her arms wound around his neck. “Don’t leave me ever again.”

John chuckled. “The Queen herself couldn’t make me go.” He looked away from his daughter and focused on Sherlock, who was surprised at how he was still standing. John’s eyes were warm and bright, and his lips were curled into the little grin that drove Sherlock absolutely mad.

“Are you going to stand there all night?” John asked. “Or are you going to give your husband a kiss?”

“I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that my husband is actually home,” Sherlock rasped before stumbling across the room and pressing himself to John’s free side. His forehead went to John’s temple, and for a moment the three of them stood huddled together, relishing being with one another once again.

“I wanted to surprise you both,” John said. “Mycroft helped me organize everything. He says I’m to tell you you owe him a favor. I don’t really think you do.”

Sherlock laughed, a wet, shaky thing. Unable to resist it any longer, he crushed his lips to John’s, nearly sobbing. John’s response was to wrap his free arm around Sherlock’s waist and drag him closer.

“Daddy! Papa!” Rosie cried, wiggling in John’s arm. “Don’t forget me!”

Sherlock and John parted, gazing into each other’s eyes. They silently agreed to continue things later before turning to their daughter.

“How could we possibly forget you?” John asked. “You’re our baby girl.”

Rosie beamed and kissed John’s cheek. John kissed hers back as well as Sherlock’s.

“Welcome home, John,” Sherlock said as they drew close again. “Merry Christmas.” John sighed and hugged them both tightly.

“Merry Christmas, my darlings. Merry Christmas.”


End file.
